I just felt like writing this, putting stuff out. 

 

His Sacrifice

 

To the uncle that saved frogs, scared off my mother's bullies, and supported all that needed it; rest in piece; I wish I could have met you.
 

In a stark white hospital room lit up only by the blinding lights and a vase of flowers, the family stood around the frail person in the bed.  The breathing was irregular, each pause growing longer with every p*censored*ing moment.  An occasional beep sounded from the Nintendo in a little boy's hands, and he remained unfazed by the solemn silence of the other room's residents.  His sister was at the bedside, trying to focus with the same amount of care and sadness as her relatives, but failing, fidgeting every now and then.  Gloom and dread cloaked the atmosphere and painted the faces of the people, waiting.  The machines beeped, and someone unsuccessfully stifled a cry.

In the bed there lay a man, his only connection to the outside world now being what he heard in his coma and the machines that recorded his heart.  Death crouched in the corner, waiting, and slowly made its way to the bedside, reviewing over his life.  He was always away, working, in a country far from his home.  His children barely knew him, and wouldn't ever know until they were older that that was his sacrifice; he'd traded being in their lives for the money to raise them.  So there in that hospital room, with little emotional ties, his children felt his presence leave the room and die, all the while one of them focused on his game, and the other struggled to surface amid the uncomfortable situation.

When he would die, everyone who knew the true meaning of death would cry.  Someday, but not that day, his children would too, because they'd realize it.

Death reached out and gently took the man away from his pain.

And many years later, when his sister told her children his story, her children thought of him, and in their memories he survived.